R.E.M. was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a couple of weeks ago.
There's probably nothing that more definitively declares that your biological youth is over than having your first favorite band be installed in a museum.
You see, R.E.M. was my first serious artistic relationship. I don't know how else to describe it. Their early IRS years were the ones that marked me. I'll admit that after being a completest for more than a decade, buying any and everything they put out, I stopped paying careful attention sometime in the 1990s and when Bill Berry left the band to become a gentleman farmer. I just checked out completely. I feel a bit bad about that. I want to say: Hey R.E.M. it's me, not you, we've just grown apart.
To say that I loved R.E.M. would be an understatement. Those boys from Athens, Georgia were a beacon of possibility for me. They were quirky, obscure, well read, and stylish in a way that declared that it was possible and quite obviously preferable to color outside the lines. For a time I had a small collection of tuxedo shirts I would wear because I'd seen Peter Buck wear one untucked on stage and just thought that was incredibly badass. I coveted their tour shirts which were light on band logos and heavy on cryptic symbols which begged civillians to ask you "what they meant," to which the proper response was some flavor of a knowing smirk.
We didn't have MTV (or cable) where I lived and there was no
Internet so being a fan meant mailing away for xeroxed fanzines. It also meant clinging with ferocity to people who shared my
belief that R.E.M. was the most important band in the world. For a time I think they really were.
Tanja was the only person in my life who shared this passion with equal fervor. She was the first artist I ever met. She was beautiful, funny, dark, and incredibly talented. My heart just sank right now when I realized I haven't seen her in a decade and don't know how to get in touch with her.
We would trade bits of band gossip, compare our interpretations of Michael Stipe's impressionistic lyrics, and eagerly scour the bins at Lou's Records for imported 45s and material from the crop of bands that orbited R.E.M. like Let's Active and The dBs. Whenever an interview with the band led them to reveal a musical influence--Nick Drake, Big Star--we'd hunt down their records.
My relationship with Tanja was profound. We were never boyfriend/girlfriend, never lovers, instead we shared a love for a band that provided a stable foundation for our awkward lives as young adults.
************
On July 26, 1985 we executed our biggest fanboy scheme ever.
R.E.M. was in town touring in support of Fables of the Reconstruction and we were determined to meet them. But something more in depth that when we'd "met" them a year before (if you're OK defining "meet" as sneaking-backstage-and-staring-at-Peter-Buck).*
We arrived at the concert venue in the morning and staked out the tour bus. For hours we sat on a bit of grass and monitored who came in and out of the bus. We never saw the band but eventually we recognized Jefferson Holt, their manager at the time, and rushed him as he tried to climb onto the bus.
We told him that we wanted to meet the band (true) . . . two of our friends had published an underground newspaper (true) . . . it had been banned by the school district and the ACLU was fighting the case (true) . . .and so we wanted to interview the band for the next edition of this defiant underground publication (sort of true).**
He said "wait here for a moment" and never before had those words held such promise.
About ten minutes later
The show was great***, opening with moody lighting and Feeling Gravity's Pull
which, having steadfastly refused to listen to dinosaurs like Pink
Floyd, was the artiest song to be found on my mixtapes. The band goofed
around and played the Barney Miller theme and Peter Gabriel's Red Rain which caused me to reverse my previously staunchly held philosophical opposition to cover songs.
Afterwards, Tanja and I found our way backstage
where R.E.M. was surrounded by a crush of fans. There were decimated deli platters and lots of beer, but we didn’t take
any as we adopted what we figured was the cool approach of journalists.
We hovered near Michael Stipe who was being oohed and ahhed by women who were hoping to catch his eye. (This being in the days before his sexuality was firmly established as ambiguous.) I recall being rather shocked by the adulation and appalled when one woman grabbed the bottle of Liberty Ale out of his hand, took a swig, and then tried to hand it back to him. He suggested she “just keep it” and then caught our eye, dissolved the fan fest, and escorted us into the dressing room for our interview.
I don’t have the faintest idea what we talked about.
But I do recall marveling at the fact that he had yellow mustard in his hair. He had mustard in his hair! Fucking rock and roll! Why hadn’t I ever thought of using condiments as fashion? I was silently trying to work out if mustard would look good with a tuxedo shirt when our time was cut short. Stipe was apologetic. He’d had to spend time glad handing the fans and hadn’t had as much time to spend with us journalists as he’d wanted too. He summoned some minion, whispered something in their ear, and told us to show up at the gig in Irvine when he assured us he’d have more time.
We thanked him, left, and as soon as we were out of earshot I do believe that Tanja and I squealed with delight. This was all going much better than we’d ever hoped.
Two days later we drove the hour north to Irvine Meadows Amphitheater**** and had our first experience with “being on the list.” Well, we’d been “on the list” for friend’s bands when they’d play a gig at the local Elks club or some church but this was different. We were on the list of the most important band in the world. We didn’t feel cocky, we felt humbled and elated. And nervous.
Our orchestra pit tickets were fantastic, we proudly wore our backstage passes, and after the encore (Talk About the Passion!!!!) we once more navigated the security gauntlet to get back stage and talk to Michael, who seemed genuinely glad to see us again. We retreated to some quiet room, sat down and started talking for a half an hour.
This second encounter is a little less blurry and I vividly remember three things.
He didn’t have mustard in his hair, which made the first mustard sighting all the more punk rock. The mustard . . . it wasn’t a some kind of lame fashion move, it was a spontaneous artistic statement. Not sure about what but that didn’t really matter at the moment.
After chatting for a bit I tried to ask a serious question:
“Michael, yesterday I was with my family at the San Diego Wild Animal
Park—not
sure if you’re familiar with it but it’s like a big zoo—and Jan and Dean were
playing. And frankly, it was kind of
sad. They’ve been around for, like a
long time, and Jan was in that car accident and was like
semi-paralyzed and couldn’t really move around that much and it just seemed,
well sad. Where do you think R.E.M. will be
in 20 years? Will you be playing the
He said no, they’d probably be broken up. He couldn’t imagine doing this for another twenty years.
Dropping any pretense of being a journalist and consumed by my inner hunger to be a rockstar, a burning desire which had propelled me to write lousy songs in my bedroom and pretend, in the shower, that I was being interviewed by Rolling Stone about “my origins,” I asked with wide eyes: “What’s it like to be out there, on stage?”
“Follow me”
Stipe got up, inexplicable grabbed a hammer, and walked us out the middle of
the Irvine Meadows stage. I was
thunderstruck. The amphitheater was
immense. The lights were bright. There
weren’t any fans in the seats, just workers picking up trash, but I got a chill
up my spine. I got it. The sense of power and vulnerability. I could only imagine what it would be like to
be on the receiving end of thousands of people waiting for you to do your
thing, to bust out that guitar riff (or in the case of R.E.M. at the time, that
arpeggio), to bellow “HELLO IRVINE!” It
made me drunk, but I tried to hold my cool. I took a few pictures which I hoped
would be “arty,” only one of which has survived,
And then we were done. We shook hands, wished each other well, and Tanja and I piled into my 1970 Ford Torino to drive home, pinching ourselves along the way and deconstructing every moment of the past three days.
That was last time I ever tried to meet someone famous for the sake of meeting someone famous. I’d met—more than met I'd had a conversation with!-- the closest thing I’d had to an hero. Tanja and I had taken our fandom about as far as it could go and we realized that.
We’d been fortunate that the object of our obsession was kind and generous and, I think, on to us. Stipe knew that we weren’t going to be publishing some article that would be important to his career; we weren’t useful. But we were enthusiastic, respectful, and hopeful.
************
More than twenty years later, I think about all of this and am pleased that, to my knowledge, R.E.M. hasn't yet played a gig at a zoo. I've long since taken my tuxedo shirts back to the thrift store and my electric guitar is on permanent loan to a friend who actually knows more than three chords; I've accepted that I won't be leading a band in front of thousands of adoring fans.
I actually was interviewed by Rolling Stone last year, but the topic was not the expected "Mark's origins as a stunning musical talent that has emerged from nowhere." It had something to do with ringtones, not exactly the focus of those teenage shower conversations.
But my life? It's very rock and roll. Rock and roll with a mortgage and a respectable job, sure, but a life that cherishes the margin and holds art, transgression, and beauty as essential as food and water.
I felt this was important when I was 18 and swimming in a world of college applications and SAT scores and "what do you want to be when you grow up"--the typical drill that all too often crushes dreams and suppresses instincts. But then this guy, this larger than life figure, someone who seemed old and wise (at what, his mid-20s?!) decided to spend about an hour with me and my best friend over the course of a few days.
What I took away from all this was something like: "It's OK Mark, you're on the right path, whatever that is. It's OK, do your own thing, make shit up, pretend (it worked here, right?) but remember that whenever you do make something of yourself be sure not to be an asshole, because being an asshole is something easy, not something great."
It's long overdue, but I'd just like to say: Thank you Michael.
Now maybe I should go put some mustard in my hair for good measure.
xo
-----------Footnotes------------
* Of course we didn't think of ourselves as "fanboys" since the term hadn't been invented yet. No, we were simply enlightened. In terms of schemes, I'd spent the past two years become quite adept at sneaking backstage at concerts and as a result had bumped into The Clash, Big Country, and most notably had a ridiculous conversation with Thomas Dolby who I found engaged in conversation with some woman, the both of them speaking French. Being a student of that language I loudly interrupted them with remembered snippets of dialogue from French class which when translated amounted to something along the lines of: "WE GO TO THE BEACH! OH MY, THE PUPPET SHOW! WHERE IS MY BROTHER??!" They both paused and, quite understandably, looked at me like I was insane.
**There never was another issue of The Hachet Job and we pretty much knew that to be the case at the time. The story of our friends was later memorialized in the ABC After School Special "Words to Live By" in which Phil and Dan had a cameo appearance.
*** Setlists from these two shows can be found here. I'm assuming they're accurate but can't find my tiny notebook where I recorded each song as they played it. I will tell you that the San Diego venue was not at UCSD as the site claims--it was at the most excellent amphitheater at SDSU which is oddly located right behind the library.
**** Now the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater.
Mark: I LOVE this story. What a great experience. Thank you for sharing it. Well written and inspiring.
Posted by: Kali | Saturday, April 07, 2007 at 21:36
awesome post!!
Posted by: brian | Sunday, April 08, 2007 at 07:31
Out of understanding, I have pulled out my vinly of Murmur and
Reckoning. Though the turnable is long gone there is something quite nice about holding these albums again. I think the last REM album I bought (records stores were magic) was the re-release of Chronic Town right after Fables of the Reconstruction and like you for reasons I'd like to suss out I lost interest. REM was important in that living South East Ohio I had the two sets of friends...on one hand these friends were into either: Judas Priest/Iron Maiden and the other set: Alan Holdsworth/Al Di Meola. REM just more sense and even though I can't quite put it in words...their music became better a better friend to me.
We are mos de over due for a catch up---you know any one with a turntable? Let's have a vinyl night and break out the Rolling Rock.
Posted by: Scott | Sunday, April 08, 2007 at 19:53
Thanks for sharing, Mark. This is a reminder of inspirational experiences and a great read.
Posted by: jason Dennie | Monday, April 09, 2007 at 10:25
All I can say is WOW. I wish I could have been there with you and Tanja. What a great story, and I love love love the picture of Michael Stipe. :)
Posted by: Lisa | Wednesday, April 11, 2007 at 15:08
Mark,
Thanks for dropping me a line...
Oh, but, this is really is a great story... and of course, you are a great story-teller, so it's doubly good.
You've been on stage before, although not to the scale of REM... but I'm sure you can also image through that lens what it is like to be on stage in front of thousands (tens of thousands) of people.
My stage time has been in front of hundreds of people... but as a performer, I can say that I don't believe the number of people change the equation that much. The feeling you get from performing... the adrenaline rush from putting it all out there... putting your soul on the line. If you give yourself to 1 person, to ten people, or to a million people... the core emotion is that feeling of all-out no-holds-barred risk... and trust... trust in yourself... and in your audience. That is the essence of what makes a rock star. Sure, the punks (I was one) will tell you they don't care, and that is what makes them free to do what they want to do on stage... but the truth is, we are all human, and we all want one simple thing... to be accepted for who we are. The thrill of exposing yourself to the ultimate of rejection, and the power of feeling some acceptance when you aren't rejected... is AMAZING.
Isn't that what blogging is about?
Anyway, keep up the blog... it's cool stuff. Let's hook up... I'd love to tell you what I've been up to.
-Brad "el ZappoMan"
Posted by: ZappoMan | Thursday, April 12, 2007 at 19:30
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